Chapter 21
21
GIANNA
I smooth my hands down my dress, trying to steady my nerves. It’s one thing to get married to a perfect stranger—I’ve already made my peace with that. Stranger or not, I can handle Michael.
But meeting his brothers? That’s a whole different nightmare.
Though I’ve gleaned from conversations I’ve had with Gracie that they aren’t blood-related, I believe the brothers you choose often have a stronger bond than those you’re stuck with by birth. That means loyalty. That means protection. That means… they’re probably going to tear me apart tonight.
Do they know the true circumstances of our marriage? Probably—since Maximo was our witness, and his wife, Elira, straight-up asked if I was here under duress. What if they decide to interrogate me?
I already know Rafael—the head of the Nightshades—will be there. And now that I’ve connected Michael to the founder of HartSphere, I realize just how naive I’ve been all this while. He’s the man people call the ‘Mad Hatter’ in hushed tones, one of the most unhinged members of the Nightshades.
Although, not the cruelest.
That title belongs squarely to fucking Rafael.
I met Maximo the other day, but I didn’t get a real read on his personality—I was too preoccupied with Michael during the ceremony, then too busy drowning myself in alcohol afterwards. Not my finest moment.
I sigh, pulling my hair up into a ponytail just as my bedroom door swings open.
Michael strolls in like he owns the room—which, technically, he does—but still. I frown at him. “You can’t just walk in without knocking. What if I was indecent?”
“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” he reminds me insolently, and my core clenches at the vivid reminder of just how intimately familiar he is with my body.
I cross my arms over my chest to cover my suddenly hard nipples. “What do you want?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he closes the space between us and lifts my left hand, turning it this way and that. Then, he takes out a box from his pocket, pops it open one-handed, and?—
Oh.
My jaw drops.
The ring inside gleams, looking like something straight out of a fantasy movie.
“Do you like it?” he asks, his voice laced with smug satisfaction.
I clear my throat, pretending my heart isn’t currently trying to punch its way out of my chest. “It’s–it’s okay, I guess.”
As he lifts it from the box, the gems catch the overhead lights, sparkling like they’re winking at me—shiny, expensive, and way too pretty for my fingers.
“I wanted a dove at first,” he muses, “to match your hair clip. A reminder to you that you’re my little dove, even though you try to put yourself out of reach.” He pauses, tilting his head. “But then I remembered—you’re bound to me now. Just like a flying kite is bound to its owner, no matter how hard the wind tries to carry it away. So I settled on the kite design.”
I narrow my eyes. “Are you trying to imply you own me?”
Michael hesitates, brows furrowing like he’s actually considering his own words. Then his lips quirk up, and I swear he’s about to say something that will make me want to smack him.
But instead, he carefully places the ring back into the box, then pushes it into my face. And damn him, I get distracted all over again.
The band itself is a uniquely shaped yellow gold beauty. Instead of the typical round band, it’s half a circle, the top forming a downhill curve with diamond stones trailing along it. The engagement ring matches, set on the same yellow gold band, and features a solitaire-cut gem in the shape of a kite, with little diamonds outlining the edges.
Together, they emphasize the kite motif, the rings sparkling prettily like they were made for me.
Because they were.
He custom-made them for me.
The realization thaws my heart a little towards him, and I frown to cover it up, refusing to let him see how much his gesture affects me. Damn him. He said he’d remember that I love jewelry, and then he went and did this. I run the tips of my fingers over the rings, tracing the delicate details.
He adjusts the box in his hand, and I let my fingers go slack as he takes out the band first. Slowly, with surprising sensuality, he slips it onto my ring finger. My pulse hammers wildly in my throat as he follows with the engagement ring, pressing it into place beside the band.
I’m still trying to process how strangely intimate this feels—just the two of us alone in this quiet room—when he lowers his head and presses a lingering kiss to my ringed finger.
My breath catches.
When he looks up at me, those electric eyes are gleaming with dark, masculine satisfaction.
Oh, hell.
“And what about you?” I ask, clearing my throat as I nod at his bare ring finger—even though a ring already glitters on his thumb.
He smirks, tucking the empty box into his pocket, then takes out another, smaller one from inside his jacket.
Inside is a simple, plain black band. I raise a brow at it. The rings on his thumb and ear are diamond, so I guess I was expecting something a little grander for his wedding ring.
“Well?” he prompts, wiggling his fingers at me.
I pluck the band from the box and take hold of his strong, masculine hand. Unconsciously, I rub the pad of my thumb over his rough ring finger, and he jerks slightly. I glance up—and immediately wish I hadn’t.
His eyes have darkened to a stormy blue, glistening with something raw, something hungry. And it calls to something equally restless in me.
Swallowing hard, I push the ring onto his finger. But no matter how nonchalant I try to be about it, a strange, primitive satisfaction surges through me, like I’m staking my claim on him. And as I turn his hand in mine to admire my work, I realize… I actually love the black band. The glossy finish stands out next to his diamond thumb ring, drawing attention without being gaudy.
“Can I kiss my bride?” he asks. When my gaze lifts again, his is solely on my lips.
I lick them nervously. “I–I don’t know, I–”
His mouth captures mine, soft at first, like he’s giving me a chance to pull away.
I don’t.
So he tilts his head and really kisses me, his tongue parting my lips with effortless dominance.
A moan slips out, my hands flying to his lapels as the room spins sweetly around me. I kiss him back with all the pent-up frustration, desire, and anger I’ve been trying to suppress, and he groans, the vibration traveling through my body, unzipping my spine.
His left hand curls up from my face to my hair, tugging at the band holding it up until the strands are free and spilling down my back. “I prefer your hair down,” he murmurs against my lips before stepping back and offering me his hand.
“Are you ready for dinner, Mrs. Hart?”
The name sends a dangerous flutter through my chest. Damn him for always knowing exactly how to slip under my skin, for making my walls shake when I swore they’d never crack again.
But no, I can’t open up to him. Not after what happened the last time.
I force a smirk. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
Placing my hand into his, we walk out the room and down the stairs—where to my surprise, our guests are already waiting. I shoot Michael a sharp side-eye. Seriously? He should have fucking told me they were here instead of distracting me for an extra few minutes upstairs.
What if they think we’re rude hosts? Worse—what if they think I’m the rude one?
Before my thoughts can spiral, Michael gently nudges me forward and announces, “Everyone, this is my wife.”
I brace myself for a long, awkward silence, but Elira comes up to me almost immediately with a warm smile, grasping my left hand.
“Your rings are stunning,” she coos, then pulls me into a quick hug, her voice dropping to a whisper against my ear. “You’re going to be fine.”
I didn’t think I could smile tonight with how nervous I’ve been, but I give her a genuine one as I squeeze her hands. “Thank you. Yours is very pretty too. Very… big.” The damn thing is so huge, it almost feels like it could cut me if I’m not careful. The diamond snags a little as our fingers part, drawing her twinkling laugh.
I really like her.
Maximo steps forward next, nodding at me gruffly before shaking Michael’s hand and leading his wife back to their seats.
The next contender is a stranger.
A very tall one.
He stands a few inches above the other men, his muscular build matching his height. His dark, inky hair is slicked back with gel, and his eyes—brilliant green, as vivid as moss—are almost unnerving in their intensity.
Not exactly cold, but calculating.
And though there’s a charming smile on his lips, it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Hello, beauty. I’m Romero.”
I eye him warily. Romero Lombardi . The famed criminal lawyer. I’ve never met him, but I know of him.
Aldo used to curse his name on a regular basis, and back when I was still in school, I’d overhear people talking about him—about how ridiculously good he is at his profession. Which is getting criminals who deserve to rot in jail off the hook.
Fitting that he’s a Nightshade member.
His smile becomes genuine, eyes glistening with amusement—like he can read my thoughts—as he lifts my hand to his lips for a lingering kiss. Michael shifts beside me. A second later, his arm snakes possessively around my waist, dragging me into him, and I can feel the tension radiating off him. Romero chuckles.
“Oh, I see how it is, Romero,” Elira teases. “Now that there's another female in the group, I’m no longer your beauty? You’re trying to slither your way into her heart now?”
Maximo’s eyes darken as he murmurs something into his wife’s ear, and whatever he says makes her giggle. But the lightness in the air dims when Romero takes a step back, revealing the last man. He’s still seated in his chair, not bothering to get up to greet us like the others.
Rafael .
I can’t keep the glare off my face as Michael leads us towards him. Even though he’s sitting with us towering over him, he somehow manages to look down his nose at us.
This is a man who’s used to being the most powerful presence in the room. Even here—amongst men I know are arguably the most dangerous in the States—he commands attention.
His silver eyes study me with glacial coldness. “Do you know the trouble you’ve caused Michael? And, subsequently… us?” His voice is low, but it carries. Holds a quiet power that’s quite frankly, terrifying.
“Rafael, don’t,” Michael grits out.
He turns his gaze to Michael, and the coldness thaws, just a little. His eyes aren’t exactly warm—that would be asking for too much—but there’s something there. An unmistakable care for my husband. And in that moment, I realize something else: outside this group, no one could dare defy him without fear of losing a limb, or hell, their lives.
“Welcome to the family, I suppose,” he finally says, and the room seems to let out a collective breath of relief.
Is that him giving his approval then? Not that we need it, considering we're already married, but still… it doesn’t suck to have it.
My glare eases as we take our seats.
Moments later, Gracie walks in with a few guys I haven’t seen before, all carrying steaming platters of food. Her eyes seek mine, and I can almost see the question in them. I give her a subtle nod. She exhales softly, offering me a small smile before directing the guys to set the food down.
Dinner isn’t as bad as I feared it might be.
Romero and Elira lead the conversation, occasionally drawing me in, but it’s hard for me to focus. Because Rafael’s words won’t stop rattling around in my head.
What trouble have I caused Michael and his brothers? While it is true that I’m still pissed and hurt from his betrayal a few days ago, I can’t deny he’s been trying to make up for it in his own way.
He killed Dario, which must’ve stirred up shit in the syndicate since they were allies. He brought me to his home, married me. All that for what?
When I asked him what he’s getting from this marriage, he simply said ‘you’. What the hell does that mean?
And what the hell is the trouble they’re facing because of me?
Michael’s fingers slip around mine, pulling me from my thoughts. When I glance up, his brows are drawn together in quiet concern. That’s when I realize the plates are empty. Dinner is over.
Michael gets up, and I watch him as he gives a short speech. He thanks everyone for coming. Thanks them for celebrating our marriage. And then, in the same breath, he tells them it’s time to leave. Basically kicking them out.
I gape at him as he holds a hand out to me. Still in disbelief, I take it, rising to my feet—and to keep up appearances, I sink into his chest, nuzzling him just enough to make it look like a gesture of affection. Then I murmur into his ear, “That was incredibly rude, Michael.”
He raises a brow at me and shrugs.
One by one, the men come forward to shake Michael’s hand again, giving me polite nods. Romero is last in the line, and judging by the tiny smirk on his lips, I know he’s about to do more than just nod.
Sure enough, he leans in, pressing a kiss to both my cheeks. “Welcome to the family, sorellina . Even though it’s a little… dysfunctional.” His eyes twinkle mischievously as he pulls back.
I huff a small laugh. “Thank you.”
Before I can take a breath, Elira swoops in, wrapping me in a warm hug, “You’ll be fine, Gia. And if you need anything, you have my number.” She discreetly presses something into my palm, and when I glance down, I see a blank card with a phone number scrawled across it.
Quickly, I close my fingers over it before anyone notices, slipping it into my dress pocket.
Michael and I see the guests off at the front door, watching them pile into their cars one after the other. Their convoy slowly pulls out of our driveway, and only when the last car vanishes from sight does the tension in my shoulders finally ease a little.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Michael asks, draping an arm lazily across my shoulder.
My head suddenly feels heavy, and without thinking, I lean against him, pressing my temple into his chest. He stiffens—just for a second—then his arm tighten around me.
“You made Rafael come here, didn’t you?” The offhand comments from the guys gave it away—the surprise in their voices when they mentioned him coming to dinner over here in New Rochelle instead of hosting in Manhattan. The vibe I got is that he rarely ever goes to any of the other guys’ houses.
Michael is quiet for a beat. Then:
“He wanted to officially meet you, and I couldn’t make you go to his place for dinner. Not while the… trauma of the last time you were there is still so fresh.”
I inhale his now-familiar scent and raise a hesitant hand to his chest. “What really happened that evening?”
Maybe it’s because of the wedding yesterday, Gracie’s soft words of reassurance about Michael. Or hell, maybe it’s a mix of everything—the dinner tonight, Rafael’s presence, the fact that I’m still standing here, alive—but suddenly, I’m curious about the events that led to him throwing me under the bus.
His chest expands with his deep breath, and I can feel his gaze drifting down to me. Half expecting some bullshit excuse to dodge the question, I brace myself. But it doesn’t come.
“I had decided you were mine, and I knew we couldn’t hide in Seattle forever, no matter how much I wanted to,” he starts matter-of-factly. “So, I was going to tell Rafael to have Aldo back off. To let him know I had found you, and there was no way in hell I was letting you go.”
“Does that mean you weren’t expecting Aldo to be at Rafael’s?” I hold my breath.
“No.” His hand drops to my chin, tilting my face up so I’m looking into his blue eyes. My breath hitches. “If I had known Aldo would be there, I wouldn’t have taken you there at all.”
Fuck me, I believe him. I believe him so hard the rest of my grudge against him melts away. “You should have warned me that we were coming into the city. I wasn’t expecting it and got blindsided. And then, when we got to Rafael’s and Aldo was waiting…”
“I know, love, I–I’m sorry.”
The quiet apology leaves his mouth easily enough, but I know it must have been a struggle for him to say. Made men hardly ever apologize—at least, not the ones I’ve seen.
I nod, acknowledging it as I move away from him, letting my chin slip from his fingers. “Thank you for telling me.” With that, I turn towards the house.
This marriage doesn’t have to be a death sentence. Michael is different from Uncle Aldo. He already promised to let me pursue my dream. Maybe… maybe this could be the fresh start I gave up on ever getting.
My steps are light, my burdens lifted for now, as I walk into the warmth of the house, Michael close behind me. I retrace my way towards the dining room, a little worried I might get lost—I should ask Michael for a tour of the place. Later .
When I get there, a robotic cleaner—much like the one in the Seattle house—is buzzing across the floor, scooping up spilled food and other debris while Gracie clears up the table.
Not wanting her to do it all alone, I move to the other side of the table to help. She looks up, startled when she realizes what I’m doing, “No, Gia, leave them, I’ll–”
Her words cut off just as I’m grabbed by the elbow so hard, the plate in my hand jostles—slips—then crashes to the floor, shattering into pieces. I jerk my gaze up at Michael’s angry face.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“What? I’m just–I’m just trying to clear the plates,” I stammer, taken aback by his sudden anger. I thought we had just made progress outside. What now?
“ No .” His grip tightens around my arm. “No wife of mine will do any kind of labor in my home. Or attempt to.”